Roman Holiday
by Gretchie
Summary: Sybil Crawley is royalty looking to escape from her strenuous touring schedule. Tom Branson is a journalist in debt that could use a front-page story to get him back on his feet. What happens when the two meet in the eternal city of Rome? A holiday unlike any other! 1950's AU based off of the movie "Roman Holiday".
1. Chapter 1

**_Hello everyone! I recently watched the movie Roman Holiday, (starring Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck, both of whom I now am deeply in love with.) and an idea started to spark, featuring my favorite characters from Downton. So enjoy! This first chapter is a little meaty with details and history, but it was necessary. Please review!_** **_I own nothing but my imagination and writing skills._**

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The Crawleys had a reputation to uphold. Their family was one of the oldest royal houses on the European continent and was constantly under the scrutiny of the public eye. They were representatives of their nation, and so they had to appear proper and refined at all times. King Robert and his wife Cora regularly donated to charities, and the matriarch of the family, the Queen Mother Violet, was renowned far and wide for her wisdom. However, it was the daughters of the family, the princesses, who had caught everyone's attention. Cora had given birth to three girls, all of them beauties. They were rarely seen, however, and thus retained an aura of mystery.

The eldest daughter, the heiress presumptive, Princess Mary, was classically beautiful. She had long, black hair and cold dark eyes. Many a suitor had sought her hand, but she had refused them all, turning away countless men, from all countries and nationalities. The newspapers speculated about her future spouse and potential candidates. Whenever a suitor would visit, there was sure to be an increase in newspapers claiming to have some new gossip about what had happened.

The second daughter, Princess Edith, was also beautiful, but quite drab in comparison to Mary. She was always in the shadow of her older sister, and she was often pushed to the side in favor of Mary. She was very kind-hearted and generous, making several efforts to improve the lives of the citizens in her country. Edith was not quite so picky as Mary when it came to choosing a companion. She was sought after by Sir Anthony Strallan, and after a yearlong courtship, they were married, earning them a front page story on most European newspapers. The couple happily settled into his castle in the countryside. They had just announced that they were expecting their second child.

It was the youngest daughter that seemed to be the least publicized. Although Princess Sybil was beautiful, Mary outshone her in pure elegance. Sybil was kind, but she hadn't performed as many royal duties as Edith. Little was known about her other than the fact that she supported women's rights. Her close friends and relatives described her as "kind, smart, and witty." The only thing printed in newspapers about Princess Sybil was a desire to understand the young woman and where she stood on every aspect of society.

It was only natural then, that Sybil would be the one to pick up her family's reputation when it was shattered by scandal and rumors. She was the perfect person to restore the faith in the Crawley family and distract the public from the events that had transpired in the Crawley household.

Turkish nobility had come to visit Downton, in the form of a man named Kemal Pamuk. He was extremely handsome and Mary took a liking to him. Pictures were released of the two of them horseback riding around the castle grounds. The pictures filled the newspapers.

Mr. Pamuk was planning on staying for two weeks, but the first night he stayed was his last. A footman found him dead in his bed the next morning. The scandal occupied even more papers. Rumors spread like wildfire. Stories were stirred up. Was he poisoned? Was he secretly murdered? A popular rumor that came from a verifiable source claimed that he had died in Princess Mary's bed.

Whatever had occurred, it was clear that the Crawley name had been tarnished. To cleanse it, the heads of the family came up with a solution. They needed a fresh front to the public, someone kind, smart and witty. Edith was busy with her family and Mary already had enough trouble tied to her name. Violet was too old and Cora and Robert needed to stay and govern.

So it was reluctantly decided that Princess Sybil would embark on her first publicized goodwill tour of European capitals. It meant early mornings and late nights, high heels and restrictive outfits, and absolutely no down time to read a book or climb a tree or do anything resembling fun. Instead, the princess had to attend ceremonies, give speeches, and stay up late into the night dancing with strange men who made themselves far too comfortable with her.

Yet it was her duty to the country to promote foreign relations and keep her family in good standing. So Princess Sybil picked herself up, held her head high, and pressed forward.

She received a wonderful welcome from the British at the start of her tour. After three full days of dedications and continuous activity followed by a visit to Buckingham palace, she flew to Amsterdam. There Princess Sybil dedicated the new International Aid Building and christened an ocean liner. Then she went to Paris where she attended many official functions designed to cement trade relations between her country and the Western European nations. She stopped in Bern, Switzerland and gave several press conferences and interviews, keeping all of her answers polite, respectful, and uncontroversial.

And so to Rome, the Eternal City, where the Princess' visit was marked by a spectacular military parade highlighted by the band of the crack Bersaglieri Regiment. The smiling young girl showed no sign of the strain that resulted from the continuous public appearances.

And at her country's embassy that evening, her country's ambassador to Italy gave a formal reception and ball in her honor. It was here where Sybil had a moment to stop and note how sore she was. Her cheeks hurt from the constant smiling. Her throat was dry from every greeting and "How do you do?" not to mention the speeches. Her feet and legs ached from standing in heels for 15 hour days. Sybil longed to do nothing more than sit down and rest, preferably for the next century. _How easy Sleeping Beauty had it! S_ he thought to herself. _All she had to do was prick her finger and take a nap. I'd trade with her any day._

Though Sybil was a beauty, she didn't have the luxury of sleeping. So Sybil was stationed at the head of the room, (standing, of course) and greeted every person that entered that ballroom. She made small talk with all of them, greeted some in their native languages, and smiled brilliantly. "How do you do?" "What a lovely dress." "That's very kind of you." Miraculously, her voice didn't crack throughout the entire thing, although it was becoming rather hoarse near the end of the greetings. As Sybil was about to take her seat (Thank heavens for a break!), she was pulled back up, expected to dance with the ambassador. The dance was fast-paced and exhausting. Sybil continued to smile and accepted every dance from the many who sought her out. The evening went by slowly and painfully. Sybil kept playing mind games with herself, trying to stay awake. She smiled. She greeted more strangers that she didn't care about, but had to give the impression she did. "How do you do?" "Charmed."

Near the end of the dance, and after dancing with several eligible members of the Italian aristocracy, including one pompous braggart, Sybil excused herself to speak with the ambassador, who she knew to be an honorable person. Sybil spent the last dance in his company, making for a positive ending to the ball.

Then the ball was over. Yet, Sybil still had to smile and meet every last straggler who had hoped to make her acquaintance.

It was well after midnight when Sybil was finally able to flee to the comfort of her room. There she yanked the high heels off of her feet and called for her maid O'Brien to come help her break free from her incredibly confining dress. She took her first deep breath all day and slipped on a nightgown. Sybil sprawled on her bed, praying for any form of sleep to come to her exhausted body, but it wouldn't come. Instead, she was left in a half-conscious state in which she was unable to control what came out of her mouth.

O'Brien brought her a tray with milk and crackers. "Your Royal Highness, we need to go over the schedule for tomorrow."

"Everything we do is so wholesome," Sybil muttered, her mouth full. She stood up on the bed. "Look at this nightgown. Isn't it horrible?"

O'Brien examined it. "You have very nice things," she said carefully.

Sybil shook her head. "Yes, but I'm not two hundred years old! I don't want to sleep in a nightgown like some lady. I want to sleep in pajamas."

"Pajamas?" O'Brien repeated absentmindedly. O'Brien had a rare talent that was useful as a servant; she was able to tune out what her superiors were saying and let her mind wander while appearing like she was paying attention to every word.

"Just the top half."

O'Brien looked up, startled.

Sybil ran to her window and opened it. Noise started to flood the room. Outside in the distance there was a barge with a group of dancing people on it. "Look out there. Look what fun they're having." She sighed wistfully. "I wish I could join them."

"Come away from the window, Your Highness. You need to rest, and we need to go over the schedule for tomorrow before you tuck in. It has to be done."

O'Brien closed the window and led her back, Sybil still rambling.

"Did you know that there are people that sleep with absolutely nothing on at all?"

"I rejoice to say that I did not."

"When I get back home, I'm going to buy myself a pair of men's pajamas, and just sleep in the top half. When I marry, my husband can have the bottom half. Think of how much we'll save in sleepwear. Just one pair of pajamas and both of us are suited."

O'Brien rolled her eyes. The princess certainly didn't need to be thrifty with money. And if her mother had heard her talking about pajamas... O'Brien was smart enough to understand, however, that Sybil was at the very last thread of her physical capacity to stay awake, and just sighed, pulled the covers over her, and mentally transcribed the best quotes to pass on to Thomas the next morning. They would certainly share a laugh during their smoke break tomorrow. She pulled out a notebook from her uniform. "Alright, time to go over the schedule for tomorrow." Before Sybil could groan, she added, "It has to be done. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish."

Although Sybil didn't agree, she stopped complaining. O'Brien interpreted that as consent and moved forward. "8:00, breakfast here with the Embassy staff. I'll come to rouse you at 6:30 so you can bathe, dress, and prepare for the day."

Sybil interrupted. "Wake me at half past 7, I can bathe quickly."

"7:00," O'Brien countered.

Sybil nodded. O'Brien read on.

"9:00, we leave for the Polinori Automotive Works where you'll be presented with a small car."

"Thank you." Sybil said graciously.

"Which you will not accept."

"No, thank you," she corrected herself.

"10:30, inspection of food and agricultural organization will present you with an olive tree."

"No, thank you."

"Which you will accept."

"Thank you."

O'Brien continued, marking a small box next to each item. Tomorrow she could check it off, and they would be done with it. "10:55, the New Foundling Home for Orphans. You will dedicate the cornerstone and give a speech." She saw Sybil sit up and open her mouth but O'Brien knew what she was going to say and cut her off. "No, not the one about Equality for Women. You'll be giving the speech from last Monday, Youth and Progress. 11:45, come back here to rest...no, that can't be right." O'Brien double-checked her handwriting. "11:45, conference with the press." Sybil slumped.

"1:00, lunch with the foreign ministry. Remember, all sweetness and decency. 3:05, presentation of a plaque. 4:10, review the special guard of police. 4:45..."

O'Brien went on, not noticing that with each engagement, Sybil grew more and more tense. She muttered replies to each one. "Thank you. How do you do? No, thank you. Charmed. So happy to meet you."

"6:05, back here to-"

"STOP!" Sybil screamed at the top of her lungs. The tray of milk and crackers capsized as she turned away, her hair covering her face. "Please stop!" she sobbed.

O'Brien quickly righted the tray. "It's alright, nothing spilled."

Sybil buried her face in the pillow. "I don't care if it's spilled or not. I don't care if I drown in it!" came the muffled reply.

O'Brien stood up. "You're sick. I'll call for Dr. Clarkson."

"I don't want Doctor Clarkson! Please let me die in peace!"

O'Brien wondered if perhaps Sybil's reaction was from exhaustion or *ahem* a delicate nature or perhaps a combination of the two. But Sybil needed to rest so she could continue tomorrow. "You're not dying. It's just nerves. Control yourself, Princess."

"I DON'T WANT TO!" she screamed into the pillow like a child and beat it mercilessly with her fists.

"I'll go fetch Dr. Clarkson."

Sybil sat up. "It's no use," she sobbed. "I'll be dead before he gets here." She buried her face back into her pillow and let out huge, heart-wrenching sobs.

O'Brien left to find the doctor. He had been kind enough to accompany them on their trip as Her Highness' personal physician and occasional therapist. Hopefully he had something in his medicine bag that could help her to sleep. Princess Sybil wasn't likely to choke down the milk and crackers, but perhaps Dr. Clarkson had something in the form of medication that could put her into a deep sleep until morning. She certainly needed it.

Sybil lay with her face buried into the pillow. She tried to regain control of herself. She counted to 20. She counted to 30. She counted to 35 and gave up. She thought about how her face would get all blotchy and tried to guilt herself into stopping, if only for her complexion's sake. Sybil finally stopped trying to get rid of her anger and let it steam out. She scrunched up her face and gritted her teeth and sent as many hateful thoughts to everyone she could think of: her parents, her sisters, O'Brien, the press, that one chap who had danced too close to her at the ball, and the whole bloody world.

When a red-faced Dr. Clarkson opened the door to Sybil's room, heeled by O'Brien, he saw a still form on the bed. Not a peep was to be heard.

O'Brien raised her hands. "I'm telling you Doctor, she was just throwing a fit a moment ago."

He shrugged and made his way to her, still sporting his pajamas and robe. He gently sat next to her on the bed. "Your Highness, are you asleep?"

" _ **No.**_ "

"Alright then. I'll just bother Your Highness for a moment."

Dr. Clarkson pulled a couple of instruments out of his bag and popped a thermometer into her mouth. He put his glasses on and squinted, examining her for any visible injuries or strains. "Now Princess Sybil, please tell me why you were crying." His voice was much more comforting than O'Brien's, and Sybil was grateful to have someone in the room that at least sounded like they cared. She was able to calm herself.

"I'm terribly ashamed, Doctor Clarkson. I was perfectly happy, and then... I started crying, and I couldn't stop."

He nodded. "Where are you on your cycle? Is that affecting you-"

Sybil flushed red. "No, it's not that! I assure you!"

He shrugged. "I have to ask. Crying is a perfectly normal thing to do. Don't worry about it." Doctor Clarkson took the thermometer from her mouth and examined it. "A long sleep should do the trick. You'll be back to your old self by the morrow."

O'Brien cut in impatiently. "Doctor Clarkson, it is most important that she be calm and relaxed for the press conference tomorrow."

Sybil looked at him with wide eyes. "I'll be calm, and relaxed for the conference tomorrow, and I'll improve trade relations and clear the Crawley name. I'll bow and I'll smile and I'll be a good girl and make my family proud..." and she fell into hysterics again.

O'Brien huffed. "There she goes again. Doctor, can you give her something?"

"It'd be best for her to just sleep naturally, but I do have this to help her, it you insist."

She nodded curtly and Clarkson extracted a syringe from his bag. "Now hold out your arm. This won't be too painful."

Sybil obeyed, clenching her teeth. The needle went in smoothly and it had scarcely started before it was over. She stared at her arm in mild confusion and Doctor Clarkson quietly packed up his bags.

"There you are, Your Highness. Have a good rest."

O'Brien lingered behind. "I'll wake you at seven, Your Highness. Sleep well!" She tucked her in and turned out the light.

Sybil lay looking up at the ceiling. It was a very pretty room that she had been placed in. It looked like something out of a Victorian mansion. But the carved angels in the uppermost corners looked like gargoyles in the darkness. Everything seemed a bit distorted.

 _I haven't been able to see any of Rome while I've been here. I've been too caught up public affairs_. She thought. _I wish I could go out and explore, just for a little while._ And then a thought struck her.

Why not...right now?

She reasoned with herself. When she had last glanced at a clock, it was just before 2. It was probably nearing half-past right now. That meant she had until 7:00 to explore and look around. That would be plenty of time to sneak out and take a walk through Rome, maybe catch a dance on the barges. She sat up in bed, not feeling the exhaustion from before. This was her chance to choose what she wanted to do with her time, instead of being bound to O'Brien's notebook and that blasted schedule. She felt a burst of energy and ran over to the wardrobe on the far side of the room. She selected the plainest outfit, a simple blouse and skirt that any person could be seen wearing, and threw it on, tying a small kerchief around her neck.

Sybil opened the window again and saw the dancers. The crowd had thinned. She was disappointed, but still wanted to explore, even if she had missed the dancing. She vaguely wondered how she would sneak past the guards at entrances, but dismissed it with a closer glance at her surroundings. Her window opened up to a narrow ledge just thick enough to walk on. The ledge led to a patch of ivy that begged to be climbed. Sybil had always been a bit of a daredevil, and her heart beat quicker at the exciting prospect of climbing out of her window and sneaking out of the grounds. It was terribly romantic, something straight out of a novel.

Carefully placing one foot in front of the next, Sybil clung to the wall until she reached the ivy. The vines were thick and strong, making it easy for her to climb down safely. The gate was simple to open from the inside. So with a slight creak, she squeezed through and wandered into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Yes, I finally updated! Hurray! Truth is, I was drowning in classes last semester, and now I've finally been able to lighten the load. I'll have more time to work on this story. I think I'll be able to update once every other week, so I'll start posting routinely. I'm also drafting up a couple of chapters for "If Sybil Was A Servant" so expect to see an update to that in a little while.**_

 _ **Please review or PM me your thoughts. Constructive criticism or any note at all is greatly appreciated!**_

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Tom was no good at cards, but he had a decent poker face. Alfred, on the other hand, was sure to let out a gleeful whoop when he drew a lucky hand. Yet somehow, the redhead ended up with more money than anyone else.

"Alright fellows, that's my last round. I have a date with Her Highness tomorrow morning. She'll be posing for some photographs."

Several complaints sounded from around the room. No one who quit while they were ahead was looked upon favorably by the Wednesday night regulars, but Tom was glad that Alfred had made the first move.

Tom justified a bit of gambling now and then. He hadn't come into debt through the practice, and he was careful to limit the amounts he spent and make reasonable bets, especially since he owed money outside of the games. Yet tonight he had fallen behind a bit, and he didn't care to add any more onto his tab. He was in agreement with Alfred and picked his last bill up from the table. His friend collected his winnings and the two bid adieu to the rest of the group, who continued to play on.

"Alfred," Tom teased as they left the apartment. "Our personal invitation to the press conference says 11:45. How much beauty sleep do you need?"

Alfred held his hands, which were full of bills, up in defense. "Call me crazy, Branson. I wanted to quit with a surplus in my hand."

They bantered as they walked, teasing each other as only good friends could. Tom wasn't quite sure how they had ended up so close. It must have been through work. Tom wrote the best articles in Michael Gregson's newspaper office and Alfred's height gave him an advantage when taking photographs. In a group of pushy reporters hoping to get the best scoop for their paper, Alfred had always been able to calmly navigate his way and take the clearest photos of all. They had been paired together on the biggest stories and eventually formed a brotherly bond.

"Well, this is where I part ways, Tommy boy."

Tom slugged his shoulder. "I told you, never to call me that!" he hissed.

Alfred laughed and gave a two fingered salute as he strolled down the sidewalk. "See you with Her Highness tomorrow!"

They headed in their separate directions: Alfred to his large studio apartment where he staged elaborate photo shoots, and Tom to his tiny one bedroom that came at the cheapest price. He had been there for almost five years now and still had trouble making rent on time, thanks to the measly salary he received from Gregson.

Tom strolled through the quieter part of town, looking up at the stars. The night was a little on the colder side for Rome. He hated the congestion of the city, the lack of green landscape, and most of all, the dryness. He didn't think he could ever miss the rain in Ireland, since it came far too often and when it was least welcome, but it kept everything lush and lovely. It was far too dry in Rome. As soon as he paid off his debt to Gregson, Tom would go right back to Ireland. Perhaps he'd find a flat in Dublin.

He was surrounded on every side by old artifacts and ruins from ancient times, but Tom would have traded it all to be back home. He cared about history, but after having been immersed in history for years, he felt more of an annoyance to the crumbling ruins than a tie with his ancestors.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts he almost didn't notice the figure on the bench.

"So happy..."

He jumped, putting a hand over his mouth to trap a rather girlish scream that had threatened to escape from his throat. Tom looked over to his right. A slim person was lying down on the cement bench, muttering unintelligible phrases. He would have ignored it, thinking it was just a regular drunk, but the voice had sounded almost...feminine. He took a closer look, shining his penlight on her.

It was definitely a woman. A very young one at that, as she looked as if she had just left her teenage years. As he watched her, she stirred. She muttered something.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"The youth will be the key."

She was clearly intoxicated, though she didn't smell of alcohol and she didn't have any tell-tale spills down her shirt. In fact, she was dressed rather nicely for someone lying on a bench. She had beautiful features; high cheekbones, dark hair, and full lips.

"Miss, excuse me."

She held her hand up toward him. "How do you do?"

"Uh... very well, thank you," he replied as he accepted.

"Charmed."

"Charmed too."

"You may sit."

"I think you're the one that ought to sit up." Tom pulled her up until she was upright. "You're much too young to be arrested."

She put a hand on his face. "You're a handsome fellow."

Tom gently moved her hand back onto her own lap. "Er, thank you. I think. Say, why don't you get on home? It's late. Wouldn't want you to get picked up by the police or anything."

She didn't respond. He waited, and she fell forward, resting her head on his shoulder. Her snores were just barely audible. He shook her awake. "You can't sleep here, not outside."

"Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb  
Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,  
But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb  
In the blue cavern of an echoing deep."

She looked at Tom through long lashed lids. "Do you know that poem? Oscar Wilde, an Irishman just like you."

"Well dressed and well-read. And you're sleeping on the streets. Care to make a statement?"

She straightened her spine, that particular phrase causing a reflexive action within her. "We should not forget the old ways, for there are plenty of things we can learn and better ourselves with, but progression is inevitable and we should not cling to our old ways so tightly that we fear and resent change." She smiled at him winningly.

"I couldn't agree more."

"11:45, conference with the press,"

"Those who can't handle alcohol should not consume it."

She put her head on his lap and looked up at him. "You think you're so smart. I'm not drunk. Haven't touched a drop."

"Right. Now I'd love to stay and chat, but…"

Tom's words faded away as he looked up to see a taxi coming his way. He let out a sharp whistle. The taxi stopped, and Tom stood up sharply, causing the girl to fall face down onto the cement bench. He had already made his way over to the taxi when he paused to look back at the girl, realizing that she now had a bloody nose. He composed a sentence in broken Italian to the taxi driver, asking him to wait, and went back to help her. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed up the dripping blood which had fallen onto and stained her cream colored shirt. She hardly seemed to know what had happened and grasped the handkerchief tightly in her hand.

I can't just leave her on the street, can I? Someone's bound to take advantage of her. Especially since she looks injured.

"You can take the taxi."

"A taxi! How marvelous." She muttered something about always wanting to ride in a taxi as he shook his head.

"C'mon, you have money on you?"

She yawned. "Never carry money... never need it."

Tom contemplated his options, and with a long sigh, while cursing his inner Samaritan, helped her into the taxi. He got in with her, if he was going to pay for taxi fare, he might as well benefit himself.

"Where do you live?"

She didn't acknowledge him. He heard a slight snoring sound.

Tom shook her again. He stretched her cheeks.

"Colosseum…" she grumbled.

"You're not that drunk. Where to?" he pinched her elbow, trying to rouse her from her sleep.

"Colosseum!" she yelled again.

The taxi driver pleaded with Tom with the few English phrases he knew, throwing in Italian words for the rest. "My bambinos at mi casa, is late, no? dove going? scusi?"

"Alright! Alright!" As a former cab driver, Tom knew how the man felt. It was late at night and he just wanted to get home. He gave his address, "Villa Marguta, 51 please."

He nodded and began driving. During the short ride to the apartment, Tom still couldn't weasel a straight answer out of the girl. She just kept repeating Colosseum.

"Villa Marguta, 51!" The cab driver exclaimed. "One thousand lira!"

Tom pulled his last bill from cards out of his pocket. "Change?"

The driver nodded. He took the toll and handed Tom the rest. "Thank you! Grazie tante! Good, eh?"

Tom tried to phrase the Italian words. "Puoi... mi scusi. Parla inglese, er, bene?"

He nodded vigorously. "Si, si,"

Tom handed the cab driver another bill.

"Grazie tante!"

"You're welcome, now listen close. I want you to take a little bit of that, and take her wherever she wants to go. Capito?"

The taxi driver nodded. "Si, si, capito. Capito. Thank you, grazie. Mi scusi! Me excuse!" he exclaimed as Tom started to walk away. He pointed to the girl. "No, no, for you."

Tom shook his head and pointed to the extra bill. "Take her where she wants to go!" They both looked back at the girl, who was sound asleep. "She's not my problem!" Tom explained.

"Problema? No, no mi problema. No problema," he gestured at Tom, "No mi problema," he pointed down the street. "Polizia problema?"

"Hold on, she's just a kid. She can't be picked up by the police!"

The taxi driver pointed at Tom. Tom in turn looked at the slumbering girl. "Alright," he grumbled. "My own fault." He grabbed her hand, shook her so that she would wake up, and helped her out of the taxi.

"Grazie!" the taxi driver called as he sped out of sight.

Tom looked at his new responsibility. She was close to sleep, so all Tom had to do was guide her and she followed. He led her into his apartment. As he unlocked the door, she put her head on his shoulder, drifting off while standing up. He shrugged her off. He gently took her elbow and led her in. She collapsed on the bed.

"What a lovely elevator. So comfortable."

"Hate to break it to you, but this is my room. My entire house, actually. I've been stuck here for five years now. Do you need to use the phone? There's one across the hall you're welcome to. Where are you from?"

"How remarkable. I've never met anyone who lives in an elevator." She dozed off, then sat up sharply. "O'Brien, don't worry about the crackers, just the nightgown will do."

She looked at Tom. "Can I spend the night here? Someone told me I couldn't sleep outside. Do you have a silk nightgown for me?"

"I guess there's no other option, really. You'll have to sleep on the couch though. I'm afraid I don't have a nightgown. Haven't worn mine since last year. But here's a spare set of pajamas. You can put them on."

She held out her arms. "I've always wanted to wear pajamas. Just the top half. How thoughtful."

"I think you better put on both parts."

"Will you help me dress?"

This was not the situation Tom wanted to be in. He untied the kerchief from around her neck. "There you go. You've got the rest, right?"

She looked drowsy beyond comparison. He shook her again. "Look, you need to stay awake long enough to put your clothes on, got it? Sing a song or something."

She had started singing some jazzy tune while unbuttoning her shirt.

"Is that... Cole Porter?"

She smiled. "You're the toppppp, yoooou're the Coleseeeeum!"

"Quiet! All my neighbors are asleep!"

She half whispered, half sung, "You're a Bendel bonnet, a Shakespeare's sonnet, you're Mickey Mouse!"

She was more awake now, but still as loopy as ever. "Want to know my favorite poem?"

"Oscar Wilde. You already told me."

"You kissed me!"

"Excuse me?"

"You kissed me! My head drooped low on your breast; with a feeling of shelter and infinite rest. You kissed me! My soul in a bliss so divine; reeled and swooned like a drunkard when foolish with wine."

"I don't think Oscar Wilde wrote that." Although the drunken part certainly applies, he thought.

She gave him a look of annoyance, exaggerated by the remaining traces of blood on her nose. "Josephine Slocum Hunt did."

Tom was more amused than annoyed at her conversation now. He walked over to the windowsill where he kept some brandy and poured himself a glass.

"May I have some?" she pleaded.

"No. I'm sure you've had plenty already. Why is that your favorite poem?"

"Because it appeals to me, even if it's not the most poetic."

"And why does it appeal to you?"

She looked at him straight on. "Because I'm a hopeless romantic who has never experienced any form of romance in her life. I've never been kissed. I've never even been alone in a room with a man." She looked down at her half-unbuttoned shirt, splattered with drops of blood. "Not even with my clothes all the way on."

Tom laughed.

She glared at him. "It's not funny, you rat!"

Tom loosened his necktie. "You know what, I'm going to step out for a minute. You go ahead and change into the pajamas. Remember, you're sleeping on the couch." He walked out with his glass still in hand, and walked around the block once. She should be able to get dressed in ten minutes.

When he came back in, brandy drained from the glass, he found her curled up under the blanket, sleeping soundly in the pajamas. On his bed. No amount of shaking would wake her. He dragged the couch around so that it was parallel to the bed, and with a grunt, he pulled the sheets out from under her so that she rolled onto the couch. There she shifted, mumbled "So happy," and fell back asleep.

Tom changed into his pajamas, and as an afterthought, tucked a blanket around her shoulders. He took her shirt, washed the blood out of it, and hung it up to dry. Hopefully in the morning, everything would be resolved quickly and easily.

"Goodnight," he called, as he climbed into his own bed and turned out the light.

* * *

O'Brien had notified Dr. Clarkson of Princess Sybil's disappearance. He had wisely told the Ambassador, who had developed a father like affection for Princess Sybil during the short time she had been there. He had his staff search the grounds and every inch of house, but to no avail. In the meantime, he had sworn everyone to secrecy and classified it as a top-secret crisis.

Between the Ambassador and Dr. Clarkson, the decision was made to tell everyone that Princess Sybil had taken ill and would not be able to attend the events scheduled in the next twenty-four hours. A message had been sent to their Majesties informing them of the matter, with promises to search all of Rome if necessary.

In the meantime, they could only pray that she had fallen into the right hands...


	3. Chapter 3

_**I'mmma back! This was a fun chapter. Warning, Gregson is a bit of a jerk in this chapter. Please review! Every bit helps me progress.**_

 _ **I do have some news though: I just booked a ticket to Italy at the end of April. I'm very excited, finally a chance to put all those art history classes to good use. I'm going to continue with Roman Holiday, but I'd like to visit Rome and do some adventuring and sightseeing myself before I describe all of their adventures. So I will write as far as I can, and then continue the rest when I get back from my trip and have a firsthand experience. There's still chapters coming though. So, without further ado...**_

* * *

The sunlight streamed through the crack in the curtains in such a way that a direct beam hit Tom in the eyes, blinding him though his lids were closed. He heard bells pealing in the distance and rolled over. Unfortunately, he was already on the edge of his thin bed and for a split second he had the terrifying feeling of falling over. If the adrenaline hadn't awakened him, the impact with the edge of his couch did. The landing was unpleasant, but more comfortable than the hardwood floors beneath. His mind was still drowsy and he vaguely wondered why the couch happened to be so close to his bed. And also, what was that wet sensation on his foot?

He turned his head around to check and practically jumped out of his skin. There was a girl on his couch wearing a familiar pair of striped pajamas. A trail of drool led from her mouth onto his foot. What had happened last night?

Tom got up and went into the bathroom to splash some water on his face. A woman's garment caught his eye, and when he saw the kerchief hanging over it, he remembered everything. Drunk girl, Coleseum, Poetry. So nothing had happened between them. But what was her name?

The hourly church bells reached the end of their song and began chiming to announce the time. Tom was expecting to hear eight or nine peals, but when they reached twelve, he panicked. The clock on his bedside table read noon. His watch confirmed that he had missed the press conference. Tom was furious with himself. Gregson was going to kill him. He threw on his best threadbare suit and rushed out the door, assuming that whoever that girl was would find her way out when she woke up.

Tom dashed to the front door of the office. He stopped outside to catch his breath, rearrange his tie, and prepare his excuses. He sauntered in lazily, as if he wasn't panicking from missing the press conference. Confidence is key, he told himself.

"Morning, Gwen." Without looking up from her typewriter, Gwen pushed her cup of tea to him with her elbow.

Gwen Harding was the sharpest secretary there was. She worked long hours without complaint and was always taking the initiative, hoping for a promotion. She got paid dirt, even though she put in the most effort and returned the best results. She was secretary for both Tom and Mr. Green, typing up their articles, arranging their interviews, and saving Tom a couple sips of her tea and a biscuit in the morning.

"Mr. Gregson is waiting for you. He didn't look happy," she informed him, her fingers still flying.

"So nothing new?" Tom chuckled. "Hey, how's John? He recover alright from his cough?"

Gwen halted her work for a rare instance and smiled up at him, obviously pleased at the inquiry. "He's much better. I wish I could have stayed home with him, but alas, no rest for the wicked. Gregson was very strict. I already took off a day this month to go to my cousin's wedding, and I couldn't miss another one or heaven help me." She shrugged halfheartedly.

"Find any other options yet?"

"When it comes to the job hunt, I'm not much of a predator. And there isn't much prey," she remarked dryly.

At that moment, Gregson popped his head out of the office door. "Branson! In my office. Pronto. And Miss Dawson, back to work. I can't have anyone slacking off."

"It's been two years and he still can't remember my last name..." Gwen muttered under her breath as Tom made his way to the office.

He strolled in, but carefully shut the door behind him. If he was going to be chewed out it wouldn't do to let the whole staff know.

"What can I do for you, Sir?"

Gregson sat behind his desk, his feet propped up and his hands folded on his stomach. "I'm not sure if you were made aware previously, Branson, but in the office we start our mornings at 8 o'clock, not noon." He checked his watch. "Half past actually. You were supposed to pick up your assignment."

"I picked up my assignment last night!"

Gregson's expression changed. "You did? And what assignment was that."

"The princess, of course. 11:45."

"You mean to say that you've already been?"

Tom decided to wing it. "Sure, just got back."

Gregson laughed. "Did you really? Now tell me, what was her response?"

Tom pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and feigned that the notes from the conference were on it. "To what, Sir?"

"Let's see, the idea of a European Federation?"

"She thought it would be just fine." Seeing that Gregson was not content, Tom squinted at his paper and prayed for ideas to beef up his excuse. "Well, naturally, she thought there would be, erm, two effects. The direct and the indirect."

Gregson still looked unsatisfied. "And of course, she thought that the indirect effect would be, well, less direct, than the direct. That is, not right away."

"I see. How profound. And what were her views on, say, change and development?"

A phrase from last night popped into Tom's head. "She believes that we should not forget the old ways, because they still hold good elements, but progression is inevitable and we should not cling to our old habits so tightly that we fear and resent change." He clenched his teeth, hoping Gregson would buy it.

Gregson let out a long whistle. "Well done, Branson! One last thing before you go: what was the Princess wearing?"

"What was she wearing? Sir?" Tom stalled, scrambling for generic details in his brain while remaining calm on the outside.

"Yes, Branson, what was she wearing? Her clothes?"

"Well, Sir, the princess was wearing... full jewelry of course, with her tiara, and a light dress that was, well, I'm not sure whether to classify it as a grey or a blue."

"I think I know the one you're talking about. The one with the rounded collar?"

"Yes! That's the one!" Tom said gratefully. He discreetly wiped a bead of sweat off of his forehead and congratulated himself on his success.

Gregson pressed his hands together and wiggled his fingers. "How...interesting." Gregson said. "I'm very curious as to how you obtained that information."

"Well Sir, all in a day's work."

Gregson looked like he was fighting a smile. "Perhaps you'd better take a look at this," and he handed Tom the morning newspaper. It was folded over so only the title was visible. Princess Taken Ill; Press Conference Canceled.

Tom looked up slowly, a sheepish expression filling his features.

With the upper hand established, Michael Gregson flaunted it. "Considering the press conference wasn't held today, you can see how I found it interesting that you not only knew her stances, but what she was wearing. Unless you somehow obtained a private audience with the Princess? Because that would be worth top dollar. But I'm going to naturally assume that you didn't."

Tom shook his head and braced himself.

Gregson let out a long sigh. "Truth is, Tom, I ought to give you the boot. You lied to my face about the most important story of the year." He sat up straight in his chair and tucked his legs under the desk. "But that was the most believable cover-up I've seen yet! I had the evidence right in front of me and I still doubted myself! That's what makes a good reporter, a guy who can make me believe a lie when I'm looking at the facts. I think you could've written the article and been just fine. Was that a change and development garbage a direct quote from the speech the Princess gave in Bern? From sheer style, I'll keep you on. That, and you're the best guy we got. Molesley and Mason don't come close to your articles."

A simultaneous feeling of relief and guilt coursed through Tom's veins. He hated the sinking feeling inside of him and felt sure that if his mother had been there she would have whipped his backside as if he were a boy. He could almost hear her voice now, "Tom Branson! Lying is worse than stealing, because you can give back what you stole, but you can't take back what you said! I won't have a liar for a son! Are you trying to drive me into an early grave?" He also hated how Gregson referred to a 'good' reporter as one that lied. A good reporter was supposed to tell the facts to the people. But despite the setbacks, the situation was playing out much better than he expected. He couldn't afford to be on the moral mountaintop if it meant more debt to Gregson.

"Oh and since you owe me all that money, I guess you can stay. But another instance like this and I'll add interest. Get it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Now get to work."

Tom mumbled a thank you as he walked out.

Gwen had a fresh cup of tea ready for him. "You still have your head," she observed. "He must have been in a good mood. But tell me, what did you do that was so terrible?"

"I slept late."

She tsked. "Tom, that's not like you! You're usually up with the birds. You weren't playing late with Alfred and them, were you?"

"I left early. I'm late because there was this girl-"

"Tom Branson, I hope this isn't-"

"No, nothing like that! I was up late making sure she didn't get picked up by the police. I just slept in, missed the conference, and he caught me in a lie."

Gwen picked up the morning paper from her desk. "Tom, if you had just taken a glance at this before going in there it could have saved you a heap of trouble." She thrust the paper at his chest.

He chuckled, about to defend himself with some clever quip when he saw the paper. He stopped short. Beneath the phrase, "Princess Taken Ill; Press Conference Canceled" there was a picture of a face he had seen before.

"Gwen, is this the Princess?"

"Course it is, Tom. It's certainly not the Führer."

"I might need the rest of your tea." Gwen handed it to him and he took a big gulp.

He blinked rapidly. The face appeared on the page. The same face that was currently sleeping on his couch. The same face that could be his ticket back to Ireland.

"Excuse me," he muttered to Gwen.

Tom dashed to the public phone just inside the office doors. There was a small enclosure around it so no one could see his shaky fingers trying to dial his landlord. After a couple of requests to the landlord, and the confirmation that there was in fact a sleeping girl in his room, and a "very pretty one at that," Tom secured the promise that no one would be able to go in or out of the room.

He hung up and sprinted into Gregson's office.

"How much would an interview with the Princess be worth?"

"Don't waste my time, Branson."

"I'm serious! A private, personal, exclusive interview with Her Majesty."

Gregson chewed on his pen. "Including her views on trade? On war? On men? On clothes?"

"Everything. Every little whim and secret desire from the princess. Where she stands on every aspect of society."

Gregson scoffed. "Branson, there's no way you could-"

"Just how much."

"Five grand. Any editor with half a brain would give you at least that much. But since the princess leaves soon, it would be most potent tomorrow. I'd need it then."

Tom's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. Five thousand would pay off all of his debt and more. He could finally return to Ireland with money to spare. But he had to make sure it was a secure deal.

"Will you shake on five grand, sir?"

Gregson chortled and stuck out his hand. "I don't know how you expect to do it, Branson, but by George, if you do, I will revere you as the most valuable worker I have ever known. There will be pictures, of course?"

Alfred could probably be persuaded, even on such short notice. "Yeah, yeah, sure. Deal?"

"Deal. But I'll bet five hundred you can't do it by tomorrow."

Without hesitation, Tom grasped Gregson's hand.

Flopping down in his chair, Michael laughed loudly. "By tomorrow, I'll practically own you, Branson!"

"Or I'll be out of this hole." Tom retorted. He walked quickly out of the office, bade a quick farewell to Gwen, ignoring her pleas for an explanation, and rushed home, praying that his landlord had kept his word and was keeping guard over the room.

Sure enough, the old man was pacing the ground in front of Tom's door. He mock saluted as Tom approached.

"Oooh, she's ah pretty one!" he said in his thick Italian accent. "You hava not brought eeny other gels home. Did you-" and he made an inappropriate gesture.

"No. That's all, thank you." Tom pushed him aside with one hand and opened his apartment with the other. She was still there, slumbering. He closed the door quietly, and reflexively locked it.

He looked over at the princess. She was curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped tightly around her. Tom could hear her inhale and exhale softly.

There, even with her hair mussed up and dressed in an oversized pair of men's pajamas, she still remained the vision of regality.

He fished the crumpled up newspaper out of his suit jacket pocket and walked over to hold the picture next to her face. It was undoubtedly the same person. The high-set cheekbones and natural blush, the dark silky hair, and the faintest touch of a smile across the flower lips were all the same. Which meant that a royal princess was slumbering on his ratty, old, uncomfortable couch.

On his couch...

Tom wasn't sure what kind of luxurious life the princess was used to, but perhaps it would bode slightly better for him if she awoke on a more comfortable surface. He carefully shook her shoulders. She twitched, but didn't seem to be close to awakening. Gently, he reached under her and wrapped her, blanket and all, into his arms. She nuzzled her head into his chest. He lifted up her delicate figure and carried her around to his bed, where he laid her down, taking care to position the pillow underneath her She adjusted to her surroundings with a snort.

Now was the real test. He traced a finger along her palm.

"Your Highness," he breathed.

She fidgeted, but didn't respond. He repeated it once more, a little more fervently.

"Yes," she muttered. "What is it?"


End file.
